Only Six Years Old
by MostlyxShortxStories
Summary: Edit 3/16/11  Since I bought a laptop, I've decided to rewrite this horrendous piece of crap. It needed to be rewritten anyways. Read if you want, but for now it will be on hiatus until I re-publish it. Thanks for your patience.
1. Can't Remember

**BeforeNote: So, yeah, this is a bit morbid, but it's how I like to portray Mail's life before Wammy's House. Mello, and other characters, _will _come into this story, but I'm not making this a yaoi or romance thing. It's mainly friendship and slight AU.**

**Warnings: Slight swearing, drugs.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note or any drugs.**

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Mail Jeevas can't remember the first time he tried out a cigarette, the first time he tasted alcohol, or the first time he shot the gooey, black liquid into his fragile veins. Maybe it was when he was only six years old, when his father was dozing off on the couch on a hot, summer day.

All he remembers is walking past the drunk man, who shakily held a syringe filled with some black substance. He knew better than to ask, though, what it was that his dad had filled up the plastic tube with, or else he would be beaten. That day, however, after he walked passed the older man, his father grabbed his arm and sat him on the couch.

"What're you doin', boy?" his father asked, his words slightly stirring, and his breath a putrid smell. Mail had to resist the urge to cover his nose. "I asked ya a question, kid, now fuckin' answer!" and his father slapped him hard across his left cheek.

"I-I was just looking for my b-book, papa. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." six year old Mail responded, without looking into his father's eyes, and trying to hold back tears.

"Heh heh," his father chuckled darkly. "Who a hell needs books when ya got this shit right 'ere?" and he held up the syringe to Mail's face. "Look 'a it, boy." He forced Mail's head to turn around, and he thrust the syringe closer to the six year old's eyes. "Don't that look nice? Do you wanna know wha' it is?"

Mail didn't respond, didn't look at his father's face. Instead, he tried to turn away, so he wouldn't have to look at that disgusting tube, but his father held a strong grip on his chin. Mail already knew that it was drugs, though he wasn't quite sure what kind it was. He only knew that it was bad, that it fucked with your mind and your health, and sent you on a blissful journey for a measely few minutes. His father took the shit everyday, and that was probably why his whore of a mother left him, left _them. _Mail didn't want any part of it, until-

"Ya know wha', boy, I think you should try some of this. You'll like it."

And his father shot the disgusting liquid into a vein on the underside of Mail's arm.

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**AfterNote: I _will _continue this, I promise. This was just a random idea that popped into my head while I was getting dressed this morning.**


	2. Prelude

**BeforeNote: I wrote this chapter while listening to Chopin's Prelude No. 4 in E Minor. I absolutely love that song, and I'm suggesting that you listen to it. Now, I'm not sure if that's the full title, since a friend downloaded it for me. But, if you've seen the movie _The Notebook, _that's where the song is played in a few scenes by the character Allie. Gosh I love that movie to bits. It's the only chick flick that I really like and can watch over and over again. Anyways, I'm done ranting about chick flicks. Enjoy this one :).**

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Mail remembers the feeling of his first high, when he was only six years old and his dad shot the heroin into his arm. He remembers feeling shocked and dizzy, and then the initial shock receded, and all he felt was pure bliss.

He was instantly hooked.

All he wanted everyday since that happening, was some of his father's 'black magic'. Mail would wake up in the mornings before school, walk quietly though the house in search of the druggie man, and hope like hell that he would get some. He would find his father in the kitchen, beer in his left hand, syringe in his right, already full, and he would stand quietly in front of the old man.

"So, ya want some today kid?" his father would ask, and Mail would nod his head enthusiastically. He would roll up his sleeve, stick out his arm, and a tourniquet would be placed on the upper part of the limb. Then, his father would stick the syringe into his awaiting vein, and Mail felt that peaceful bliss, if only for a few minutes.

Some mornings, the high would last for a few hours, and other mornings, like this one, it would only last for twenty minutes.

Mail didn't care how long his reality was altered, just as long as he didn't have to feel anymore.

The teachers at his school never noticed anything wrong with him. Maybe that was because they never payed any particular attention to the boy with tattered shoes, dirty shirts, and the knowledge quite like some super genius. The teachers didn't really like him because he was too smart. Perhaps, too smart for his own good.

Quite sad, actually. Only six years old with an unappreciated genius mind, a whore of a mother who left, and a drunken, druggie father. Mail had no one to turn to, _nothing, _to turn to, except maybe the promises of a blissful surreality.

So Mail followed in his father's drugged up footsteps, cherishing the bonding time when 'daddy' when stick the sharp point into creamy skin, and everything was altered and reality wasn't real and for a few minutes, Mail could forget that no one really loved him. He could forget that he was alone in this world, forget that no one gave a damn about him.

All of that changed one morning, though, when Mail walked out of the door for school after getting his morning fix. Standing by a black car at the corner of his street was an old man wearing a trench coat, expensive looking shoes, and a gentle smile gracing his other elderly features.

Curious, Mail walked up to the man and stared up at him.

"Good morning, Mail." the old man stated, and Mail gaped at him open-mouthed.

"My name is Watari, and I've been keeping an eye on your test scores at school for quite some time. Come with me, please, and I'll take you to school and have a talk with you and your principle." The old man, now known as Watari, told Matt. The child only nodded, and climbed into the backseat as Watari opened the door for him.

* * *

"Well, Mail is a good kid. He never gets into trouble, and he's very intelligent. Unfortunately, many here cannot see his talent, or they do, and fail to acknowledge it," the school principal told Watari in his office. Mail was waiting outside the door.

"I have noticed, however, that Mail has been acting a bit differently. His teacher has told me that sometimes he comes into class looking a little...disoriented, and wearing a wide smile on his face. His home life isn't all that fabulous. The mother was a hooker, for lack of a better word, and she left. The father is...well, he drinks and is a heavy drug user, but we have no hard evidence of that, so we can't have him put in jail"

Watari nodded at the principle, his gentle smile never fading. "I will talk to Mail about it, and I am going to talk to his father about letting him come with me. I wish to adopt him." he said, and the principle handed over Mail's school and medical records.

"Take care them, Mr. Watari." The principle said as a final statement, and Watari nodded. He took Mail by the hand from his seat by the door, and they drove back to Mail's house.

* * *

"Take the little fucker, it makes no difference to me." Mail's father had said to Watari, who didn't seem bothered by the man's choice of words for his own son. "He's only been a burden to me. Stupid kid takes my drugs for himself, and comes crawling back for more."

Mail, this time, was standing by the doorway in the kitchen. He didn't care that his father was implying that Mail was stealing his drugs. His father was the one who gave them to him after all, but none of that mattered anymore. Mail was going to be _free. _He would live in a better house with plenty of kids his age, kids who were as smart as he.

Life was finally going to be better for him. With that thought in mind, Mail went to his room to pack his few belongings.


	3. Services?

**BeforeNote: Woops, this should have been updated on the thirty-first. Heh, I've been caught up in a lot of shit, and I've been sick. Well, here's the third chapter.**

**Warnings: Implied sexual themes, but remember, this isn't a yaoi or romance. It's kind of a beginning into Mello's story before Wammy's.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note.**

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The drive to Wammy's was not very far, and in fact, it was only an hour's drive from where Matt's former residence was. Mail looked out the car window at the trees as they drove by. There were so many, and reached up high and all, almost looking like they could toch the sky.

_'Touch the sky.' _Matt thought to himself. _'Someday, I'm going to touch the sky. No one will be able to stop me.' _The six year old daydreamed of one day flying towards the sun, feeling fresh air hitting his face, and leaving all of his problems behind for good. He was soon brought out of his daytime fantasy, when Watari stopped the car and announced that they were at their destination.

"This is it, Mail. This is Wammy's," Watari said gently. "I've established this place myself. Now, come along. We are going to meet the caretaker and my most trusted friend."

Matt said nothing as he opened the car door, and got out, only nodding his head. Watari took the boy's suitcases, which were tiny, even for a child, and led him inside.

The two walked down many halls for what seemed like a long time, and finally, they stopped in front of a door, which seemed to be the only one in the small corridor. Watari opened the door, allowing Mail to step inside first, then followed.

"Roger," Watari began, "I have a new boy."

Roger, another old man, turned around in his big office chair, and smiled a bit at the boy. The smile, however, seemed forced.

"Quillsh, it seems like every month you have someone new." Roger said, but he wasn't upset by it.

Chuckling, Watari led Mail to the chairs in front of Roger's desk, and the two sat down. Mail waited quietly while Watari dug around in his briefcase for Mail's paperwork, and handed them to Roger. "His name is Mail, and he's extremely intellingent."

"Hn," was Roger's only reply as he looked through the papers. "Have you given him a new name?"

Watari looked down at Mail, and told him, "Here, you will have a new name. You must keep your real name a secret from _everyone. _Your new name will be Matt. How does that sound?"

Mail, now Matt, nodded his head with a small smile, seeming to approve of his new identity.

"Now, Roger, I must inform you that Matt has had a previous drug problem. Heroin, to be exact."

Roger looked a little shocked. It wasn't every month that a new orphan was brought in with drug problems. "When was the last time..." he asked, trailing off.

"This morning. It hasn't been going on for a while, but he will still experience withdrawals."

Roger looked at Matt with what seemed like sadness in his eyes, and turned back to Watari. "I will take him to the infirmary straight away then. The nurse should have some kind of tea to flush out his system."

"Thank you, Roger. I must head back to Japan now. Oh, and Matt; you'll like it here, I promise. Things will certainly be much better for you." With that said, Watari headed towards the door, and walked out.

"Ok, Matt. I'll take you to the infirmary, and then I'll show you your room." Roger said, while picking up Matt's suitcases. They soon were out the door and walking down more endless hallways.

* * *

The infirmary was not all that bad. The nurse, a middle-aged woman with a kind, old face, was very sweet and friendly, and didn't judge or look down harshly at Matt once she was informed of his drug use. The tea, however, was quite nasty, and Matt nearly choked on it.

"Now now, dear. It's ok. This tea will help calm the withdrawals," the nurse had said. She smiled at Matt, and gently patted his leg. "We're done here, Roger."

"Thank you, Annie."

"Be sure he comes in again for another cup," and she chuckled lightly at the look of horror on Matt's face.

Roger and Matt only walked down two more corridors until they reached Matt's new room. They stopped in front of a wooden door, and before Matt went inside, Roger spoke to him.

"Matt, your roommate's name is Mello. He has a bit of temper, so try not to get on his bad side, alright? Oh, and he's one year older."

Matt nodded, and Roger opened the door to the room.

"Mello, you have a new roommate." Roger said to a blond child who was layind on a bed in the corner, big book in hand and a piece of choclate in his mouth. "His name is Matt. Try not to scare him off, alright?"

Mello only shrugged, and Roger set Matt's belongings down before walking out and shutting the door behind him.

Matt took in his new surroundings, and placed his things on the other bed that was on the right side of the room. He began to unpack his suitcases, when the blond child spoke up.

"So, how old are you?" Mello asked, now standing in front of his bed and eyeing Matt weirdly.

Matt internally shuddered, and said, "six."

"Hmm. Six, huh? I'm seven, but it should work."

At this, Matt was confused and slightly scared. Shakily, he asked, "W-what should work?"

Mello smiled, and slowly began walking towards Matt. "Well, you'll see." He smirked, and began slipping his shirt off. "Can I offer you my services?"

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**AfterNote: Umm, woah. Next chapter will be Mello's story.**


	4. Mihael

**BeforeNote: This chapter was hard to write. I do not try to glorify child prositution in any way, and I'm sorry if some of you feel that I was doing just that in this chapter. It was needed, but there are no graphic details. It's mainly about why Mello had to do what he did.**

**Well, this takes place one year before Mail's story, just so none of you become confused. In the last chapter, Mihael was seven, and Mail was six. When Near's story comes in, I'll be going back like two years. Obviously, they can't be the same age at the same time. Well, they can, but they were born a year and two years apart. Anyways, enjoy.**

**Warnings: Details of child prostitution, though not too graphic, mentions of child abuse, drugs.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note.**

**Thank you to those who reviewed, alerted, and favorited.**

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One year ago, Mihael's stepfather, Abram Gorbachyov, owned a brothel, somewhere in the ourskirts of Moscow, and Mihael was the main whore. He was only six and was forced into the act of selling his body.

His stepfather _really_ hated him.

Mihael was born to Tatyana Keehl. His biological father was a man she knew since she was twelve. When she was fifteen, he had impregnated her, and left without a single word. Tatyana was a broken spirit, her parents having kicked her out, and she had no other option than to sell herself in Abram's brothel.

Abram was good to her. He took her in, put her in the front, and provided for her. He knew she was pregnant, and didn't care, but when Mihael was born, he was no longer the 'good samaritan.'

He hated Tatyana, and her boy, but kept her because she made good money.

On Mihael's sixth birthday, Abram wanted him out, said something about disposing the bastard child, unless Tatyana was willing to make a trade.

_The boy stays, but I'm putting him in front._

Tatyana agreed without hesitation. Anything to keep her baby off the streets. That day, she showed him how to attract clients, what to do, what to say; how to handle things in general. Mihael listened to his mother's every word, confusion racking his brain. Didn't his mama love him? Why did she want him out there with all those ugly, smelly men? But he wanted to make his mama and Abram happy, and if that's what he had to do, then so be it.

Mihael had ten clients his first day. The stepfather was rather pleased.

From then on, Mihael was forced to work every single day, for six months. Every dime he made went to the man who made him suffer, because Mihael was to not speak a word of it to anyone.

Although he had to sell himself if he wanted to stay with his mama, Mihael had begun to enjoy the prostitution. Some of the men were admirable. They would bring him gifts, give him extra money; whatever he wanted. Some of the extra money was kept hidden away, where his stepfather would never find it. His stash was kept under the floorboard of his bed. Yes, he lived in the brothel. He _did _go to school, had good grades, and was a favorite of his teacher.

One day, Mihael got into trouble with the school officials, because he had tried to offer his services to one of the students. He had a long talk with the headmaster, and Mihael, knowing that he would be beaten for even mentioning that he was a whore, told the headmaster about his stepfather's brothel.

Abram was not at all happy. He showed up to the school, slapped Mihael in front of the headmaster, and threatened him with more beatings when he came home that day.

Mihael never went home, because after Abram left, the headmaster contacted Quillsh Wammy.

Quillsh Wammy had been keeping an eye on the boy for quite some time. He knew of the boy's home life, and what he was forced to do. Smiling gently at the confused look on the blond child's face as he told him that he would be living somewhere else, Quillsh led him to the shiny, black car, and they drove off to the airport. Mihael would be living in Winchester, with many kids his own age, away from smelly old men.

* * *

That brought Mihael to his current position, staring at his new roommate, trying to offer his services. Mihael, now known as Mello, just turned seven, making it one year that he had lived in Wammy's House. Mello never really adjusted to the his new routine of life, which was still the same, minus the prostituion and the payment that came along with it. Mr. Wammy had tried several times to explain to Mello that his old lifestyle was no longer suitable, and that he didn't have to pursue it.

That was the problem; Mello _wanted _to continue in his old lifestyle.

Going back to the situation at hand, Mello asked his new roommate, who's name was Matt, how old he was, and he was given the answer "six."

"Hmm. Six, huh? I'm seven, but it should work," Mello stated, and internally laughed.

At this, Matt was confused and slightly scared. Shakily, he asked, "W-what should work?"

Mello smiled, and slowly began walking towards Matt. "Well, you'll see," he smirked, and began slipping his shirt off. "Can I offer you my services?"

Matt, confused now more than ever, asked, "Umm, do you want drugs?" He figured that to be what the blond-haired boy wanted from him, seeing as how he took off his shirt. Matt had read, and experienced for himself, that many druggies took it in the arm, or somewhere along their stomachs. However, Mello didn't look like a user, but Matt still asked, and was only half surprised when Mello shook his head 'no.'

"Well then, what do you want?" The redhead was now actually a bit scared, because Mello had then begun to strip himself of his pants, and was working on his boxers.

"Sex, of course," Mello answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world, as if it were perfectly okay for two children under ten to perform such intimate acts with each other.

"Sorry, I'm not into that. Besides, aren't you a little too young?" Matt deadpanned.

Mello huffed and glared at him. "Course I'm not too young! I started when I was six, it lasted for half a year, and now the other half of the year I've gone without! Come on, it's only thirty bucks for one hour."

Staring open-mouthed at Mello, Matt struggled to find words, but finally came up with,"I don't have money. I can't take out any money either, 'cause we're supposed to save that for when we become L."

"You're a pansy," and with that, Mello re-dressed himself, and turned to sit on his bed to study. "Oh, don't go anywhere near my chocolate, or I'll kill you with your own intestines, got it?"

Matt gulped, and nodded.

Ah, the start of a beautiful friendship.

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**AfterNote: I'm so sorry for the late update! I kept re-writing the part about Mello's mother, 'cause I wanted her story to fit in just right. Well, I don't know when the next update will be, so I apologize in advance for the lateness of it, 'cause I know it won't be on time D:**


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